


Eclipsed

by Hobbotch



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Headcanon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-17 15:54:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5876782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbotch/pseuds/Hobbotch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of small moments during Saeris Lavellan's time with the Inquisition</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Muddy Footprints and Cries for Help

Muddy footprints. Muddy footprints on my freshly cleaned floor, I fume as the offending boots squelch pass me. Each step mirrors the throbbing behind my eyes, but I manage to keep my temper. I am a servant, a nothing, replaceable. I need to just keep my head down and keep scrubbing, even if I was about to finish today’s work. But no, some stupid, I note the maroon and gold trimmed skirt swirling above the boots, Templar has to ruin my day. 

“Shouldn’t a damn Templar wipe his feet before entering supposed holy ground?” I grumble as soon as he is out of earshot. With an expert exasperated sigh, I pick up my bucket and start mopping the trail of mud. The Keeper would be so proud that I hadn’t stirred up any trouble this time. She, however, would have a very different opinion of my first day. Another Templar, what is it with Templars being so messy in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, ran into a server knocking over an entire tray of wine, increasing my work for the day. Worse he blamed the server, spouting off that the knife ear whore was probably drunk from snatching the wine she was suppose to be serving. She was denied dinner to cover the cost of her clumsiness. He earned the frosty glare I leveled at him, which turned into accusations I was casting dalish curses at him, which almost cost my job. I was given a long, boring lecture. My employer could benefit from being berated by one of the Keeper’s. She is far better at inducing guilt, but the threat of being thrown out of the Temple convinced me to start acting like a proper elf, like an inconvenience, an inferior. 

My offer to work for half pay is the only reason I am still here. However, the incident worked in my favor, my problematic attitude and improper appearance convinced the powers that be to assign me to secluded hallways. The type of hallways people wander to when sharing secrets. No one notices the tiny elf over in the corner, overhearing every word. Better yet, the days I finish early gives me time to sneak around collecting information. It’s rarely noticed that I am missing from my post. I almost have enough to send a message back to the clan, not that it’s good news. Templars don’t want to bow to their leash holders or the robes. Mages want to be free of their prisons. Chantry wants everyone back under it’s thumb. No one wants to give up their power or freedom. The war between the Templars and Mages isn’t about to stop anytime soon. The clan might need to move. If the Templar’s fervor spreads further, the Keeper needs to be careful. I need to be careful. 

Admiring the gleaming stone floors, I pull out a small strip of dried meat and cheese saved from lunch. I may hate the work but that doesn’t mean I can’t take pride in it. I grab my bucket of murky water in one hand and eat with the other, firm in my decision to skip dinner. This snack will have to do. Everyone important is out enjoying a meal I can only dream of. Now is the perfect time to ransack their rooms. The Divine’s suite and her inner circle are stationed close to this hallway. As long as I carry my bucket and act the subservient elf, I’ll be overlooked. Whispers are floating around that the Divine has a plan, my last promising lead. However, word came today that her Hands arrived in Haven and I want a look at this plan before her security increases. 

I shuffle my way towards the rooms, bowing politely to the few people I pass. Another turn and I’m alone, exactly where I want to be. I move to the first room on my right, one of the grand clerics who is constantly in the Divine’s company stays here. My hand stops right above the door knob. 

“ A scream? Maybe it’s my imagination or…?” My ears clearly catch the muffled cry. 

“Someone help me!” 

The bucket slips from my hand splashing muddy water across the floor as I take off running. Nothing good can result from poking my head into this. I might be thrown out of the Conclave. I need to fulfill my duty to the clan, but right now someone needs help.


	2. Fortifying Oranges

“At once she said, at once,” I mimic the elven servant who all but ran from me. “Well, Lady Cassandra can wait, give me a moment to catch my breath, figure out what in the world is going on,” I murmur staring at the green glow emanating from my left palm.

“Okay, hand thing, you’re magic. Really strange magic that almost killed me, and no one knows anything about, but somehow interacts with the Fade…or the Veil to close rifts. I wish I knew what you are,” I say with a sigh, but the mark is stubborn and gives no answers. “That mage said whatever opened the Breach also created this mark, so maybe you are...” Unease coils in the pit of my stomach. “It, it can’t be a tiny rift in my hand, right?” My chest tightens as images of demons pouring uncontrollably out of my palm, or just as fun, a clawed hand emerging from it to pull me into the Fade, dance in my head. I’m struggling to breath and I don’t want to think about this anymore. Why am I still thinking about this. 

“Shut up! Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.” The sound of my voice grounds me. “Think about something else. Anything else. The clan or recite one of the many texts I memorized or,” My stomach growls. “Food. Yes. Good distraction. I can’t remember my last meal, then again, I have no idea how long I passed out for after sealing that huge rift...” My stomach clenches again and not just from hunger. Why did I bring up the Breach again. 

“Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it,” I repeat the mantra to myself as I look around the cabin. A few squash, boxes and barrels filled with who knows what, and oranges! Bright, ripe oranges sitting in a bowl on the desk. Thank the Creators. I grab one, then stop. It’s silly, but I really don’t want the mark anywhere near something I’m about to eat or anything if I’m completely honest. I stare at the peel locking away the sweet precious flesh.

“You’re being stupid. Nothing bad happened during the trip to the Temple. I mean I didn’t really have time to think about strange hand mark while fighting demons and almost dying. But I held a staff and it didn’t get sucked into the Fade or corrupted. Stop overthinking this and eat that orange!” A great pep talk. I almost convince myself but still keep my left hand as far as possible from my prize. 

“I can peel an orange one handed. It can’t be that difficult,” I tell myself as I press the orange against the desktop. While applying pressure with my palm, I dig my nails into the rind and claw away the peel. Or maybe not. A few furrows are my only reward. None of them deep enough to even reach the flesh of the fruit. “It will take forever like this,” I huff. I don’t want the mark to touch my food, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still use the non-marked part of the arm. I shift and instead use my left elbow to hold the orange still on the desk. I again dig in my nails and pull. Ah! A small chunk of peel starts to pull away. I apply more force, excited to eat. Until my elbow slips, shooting the orange across the desktop, and slamming my elbow into the worn wood.

“Ow!” I yelp. Pins and needles assault my arm. Stupid funny bone. Stupid orange. Stupid disaster my life has become. I rub my arm, trying to subdue the tingling. I’m not going to lose to a simple orange.

“New idea. Teeth. Third time is always the charm.” I once again again pick up my troublesome fruit. There is a small rent in the rind from my previous attempts. I firmly bite on the bit of free peel and tug. Orange peel is not the tastiest, but it’s giving! It’s working! "ARGH!!! Why do you despise freedom!" I cry out at the orange that has rebuffed my advances by spraying me in my now stinging eyes. I throw the petulant fruit across the room in frustration. 

“Fine! I didn’t want to eat you.” I lie. I really wanted to eat the orange, but refuse to lose any more dignity. That orange is dead to me. I rub my sleeve across my eyes but it offers little consolation. Ensuring that my left hand is still behaving itself and away from everything, I grope around the objects on the desk half blind. Papers, cloth, and a pitcher. A full pitcher of cold water. I splash my face. Now that I can crack open my eyes without them screaming of fire and pain, just burning and hurt, I find a swatch of cloth and wet it. I place the cool soothing towel over my eyes as I slump to the floor, sighing in relief and frustration.

“I can’t peel an orange with only one hand. I also can’t live my life afraid of my left hand. The mark has been there for a few days according to the Chantry people and no one mentioned it spewing demons or sucking souls or doing anything other than closing rifts.” I choose to neglect the painful growing uncontrollably that almost killed me. “I was normal while heading to the Breach. The constant threat of death regulated the strangeness of the mark to a second class problem, but it was fine. I was fine. Everything I touched was fine, but now I’m trapped in my head. Acting like a fool because of my fear. If Keeper Deshanna or my clan saw me, their disappointment would crush me. I’m suppose to be strong. I am the First of clan Lavellan. I am their foundation.

“Okay no more messing around. Time to face this. It isn’t going away,” I say with a flutter in my chest. I remove the cloth from my eyes, bringing my gaze back to the thrumming mark. One deep breath as I jab my right index finger into my left palm and wait. Nothing happens. I just feel the calloused palm I’ve always known.

“See that wasn’t so scary.” My cheeks burn from embarrassment. I pick myself up, grab another orange, refusing to acknowledge the previous one, peel and enjoy the sweet juicy fruit. My ill-fitting, worn clothing sits folded on the desk. I shrug my way into the large green jacket and boots while I finish my snack. I dread that if I make the dear Seeker wait much longer she will send someone to fetch me, not something I look forward to. I head to the door, grip the knob tightly. Time to face this. It isn’t going away.


	3. Herald

“To the Herald!”

The entire tavern turns and stares at me. Most raise their mugs with a slight bow of the head. The tips of my ears burn. I’m ready to turn around and just leave, but the second I catch sight of the instigator I beeline towards the dwarf reclining near the crackling hearth.

“To what do I owe the honor of a visit from the blessed Herald of Andraste?” Varric asks as I slip into the chair next to him. A dozen or so conversations pick back up soothing my self consciousness. I can’t anonymously grab a drink in a secluded corner thanks to his antics. No, now everyone will either worship or question me, leaving the only welcoming seat the one I am currently in. 

“Please don’t call me that,” I say with a shake of my head.

“Well you never did introduce yourself up on the mountain.” I have little interest in talking about myself considering that’s exactly how I had spent my last few hours with Leliana, but he isn’t eyeing me like a mystery needing to be solved. If I am lucky my name will be enough to satisfy him and I can relax in peace.

“Saeris of clan Lavellan.”

“Pleasure to meet you, but fair warning I prefer nicknames. I don’t think I even remember Hawke’s given name, Herald.”

“Think of a better one then,” I growl.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he replies with a chuckle. “Naming aside, how about a drink?” He tips his mug towards me sending a wiff of something malty and bitter my way. A drink, a chance to momentarily forget the mess that is now my life, is exactly the reason I am here.

“Sure, as long as it’s not whatever that is,” I indicate with a nod of my head.

“Not a fan of Dwarven ale?”

“Or any ale or beer. I’ve been told it’s an acquired taste, but I have no idea why anyone would continue to drink that swill in order to acquire it.”

“You poor creature. I guess not everyone can have a refined palate,” Varric replies as he waves at the barmaid. “Flissa, do you still have any of that lovely red?” he manages to project over the din of the tavern. A woman with short red hair gives a curt nod before ducking before the bar. Within a few seconds she pops back up then heads to our table with a delicate flute of deep red wine.

“Here you are my lady,” she says demurely, setting the glass in front of me before flitting back to her perch behind the bar.

“Cheers to no longer being prisoners!” Varric clinks his mug into mine. “Does it meet your approval?” he eyes me as I take a sip. The thin wine tastes of tart raspberries and clove. Far better than anything the clan ever produced.

“I suppose.”

“Happy to be of service, Herald.” I scoff, bringing a grin to his face. Letting on how much the title bothers me is coming back to bite me. “So why are you here? I didn’t expect the Hands to release their grip on you so soon.”

“The same reason everyone else is here,” I murmur with a gulp of wine. His broad grin never leaves, but a flash of pity crosses his face. Why do I keep opening my mouth?

“Well then,” he taps a deck of cards sitting on the table near a large stack of papers, “If you are here to unwind, how about a game?”

“I don’t-” I start, reluctant to keep opening myself.

“Bah, come on. One game, then I’ll leave you to mope.” My gut keeps telling me don’t. Don’t trust these strangers who only want me for my hand, but the puppy dog eyes pleading with me are hard to refuse.

“Fine,” I stretch out in a long sigh. “One game.”

He perks right up and I immediately regret giving into his game.

“Perfect! There are few things alcohol and Wicked Grace can’t distract you from,” he says shuffling the deck.

“I’ve never played Wicked Grace, so you’ll have to explain the rules.” He stops, the cards falling from his hands.

“You...you’ve never played the best game ever invented?! Do the Dalish not have cards or just hate fun?” he sputters, unable to hide his shock and disbelief.

“Oh no, us poor Dalish have to make due with decks of leaves,” I snidely reply.

“Daisy never mentioned that, but I imagine it’s hard to buff with a hand full of leaves,” he chuckles, twisting my grimace into a partial smile. Damn this friendly dwarf. “So what can you play with a stack of leaves?”

“Diamondback mostly.”

“Your clan actually choose to play Diamondback over Wicked Grace.” Varric chugs a large gulp of ale, trying to rinse out the foul taste I left in his mouth. “And here I thought misfortune this terrible only followed Hawke.” 

“I’ll have to read your Tales of the Champion. Hawke and I sound like kindred spirits, or perhaps our misfortune stems from knowing you.”

“That hurts, Herald.” He ensures he emphasizes the last word. “I’ll prove I’m good luck by teaching you Wicked Grace, then you’ll be able to return to your clan and spread my teachings. You’ll be praised and worshiped as the Herald of Wicked Grace!”

I groan.

“You left it to me to think of your new nickname,” he reprimands me with a smirk.

“Alright you cruel and heartless little dwarf, show me this game I am to save the unwashed masses of Thedas with.”


	4. Guilt

Haven needs hearthcakes. Warm flaky hearthcakes smothered in cinnamon sugar with the Hearthmaster’s special icing. No fresh juicy tart apple slices. I wipe the drop of drool from my chin. It can hardly be called drool, more like dribble, but it makes me realize how much I miss the comforts of camp. I miss my little corner. My ratty blankets that smell of halla and dirt. My clothes. My worn in leathers that fit me perfectly. The long discussions and recitation drills with the Keeper and Second. Deshanna’s soothing voice and hamin tea on sleepless nights. 

“Can’t be homesick when you don’t have a home,” I mutter, chasing the daydreams away. I focus back on my search through the boxes and barrels crammed in the tiny cabin I’m borrowing. I don’t have my usual comforts to fall back on. There must be something lurking somewhere in this mess. Something bready or sweet to temper the uneasing weighing on me. But whoever raided the cabin for supplies was thorough and I thoroughly hate them.

A knock at the door breaks my seething. I pad over fully expecting Cassandra has returned to drag me back to the Chantry to discuss our trip to the Hinterlands tomorrow for the hundredth time. Instead I greet empty air.

“Afternoon Herald.” I forgive Varric’s use of the title in exchange for being oblivious of my short visitor. It’s odd being surrounded by non elves. I’m always having to look up or down at someone.

“Still can’t think of a decent nickname?”

“This isn’t something I can force. I have to wait for inspiration to strike.”

“Joy,” I grumble.

“Well, well, someone is in a cheery mood today.”

“I’m fine,” I reply a tad too quickly. 

If a glance could call bullshit, his would be screaming it. Varric’s ability to read me is too accurate, and has only gotten better after the night in the tavern. I knew that second glass of wine was a bad idea, but downed it anyways. I managed to find my own bed, alone thankfully, at the end of the night, but still worry about the slurred, unfiltered words that spewed from my mouth. The fun of being a ridiculous lightweight. Varric knows more about me than I him, I don’t like that nor that I seem to be actively working to continue the trend. “I just have something on my mind, but really. I. Am. Fine.”

“Trying to convince me or you?” he says with his pleasant little grin.

“You aren’t going away until I tell you.”

“Oh I’ll leave but that doesn’t mean I’ll leave you alone. I imagine we will have plenty of time to talk on our way to the Hinterlands.”

“You’re coming with us?” Cassandra hadn’t mentioned anyone besides us and a few Inquisition soldiers making the trip.

“Of course, it would be irresponsible and just plain cruel to leave you alone with the Seeker.”

“Hmmm,” I catch myself rubbing the pad of my fingertips along the smooth surface of my thumbnail as one would a worry stone. I clench my fists stopping the nervous tick, but he is one of the few people here that isn’t tied to the Chantry. More homesickness. I miss the Keeper. I miss Deshanna always being there to listen to my problems and offer advice. “Fine but this stays between us.”

“I’m great at keeping secrets.”

“Says the man who turned his friend’s private life into a novel,” I murmur moving out of the door jam, inviting him in. “You also owe me something delicious when we reach a real village.” 

“Deal,” he replies popping into the desk chair. I shut the door and join him, sitting cross legged on the bed.

“I was talking with Solas,” I start.

“Ahh,” chimes in Varric. “Don’t let it get to you. Chuckles can be a bit abrasive, probably from being alone for too long.”

“It’s not like that. He didn’t say anything offensive.” Our conversation was actually enjoyable and his smooth flirting was a pleasant surprise. Normally flirting is just a tool, a means to keep people close but distant or distracted. This time however, it only made me more interested in the elven apostate, but not too interested. I merely like his voice and his thoughts and his no. It’s because he is an elf and it makes me feel less lonely to see another pair of pointed ears that aren’t constantly lowering themselves to the humans. Yes that’s all this fluttering in my stomach is. Homesickness err...campsickness? Aravelsickness? And I’ve been too quiet for too long based on Varric’s confused look. “Sorry, got lost in thought there.”

“You, Chuckles, talking,” he supplies.

“Right. We were talking about his journeys through the Fade. He said events can be conflicting. Visions of the past are subjective, shaped by the emotions the spirits react to. It made me think. The only reason I’m not in chains is because of the Fade vision we saw in the Temple. What if that wasn’t what really happened? What if that’s just how the spirits interpreted what happened? What if the tearing of the Veil confused them or what if I did this?” I say flatly, staring at the mark marring my palm.

“You still don’t remember?”

“I don’t.”

“Well Herald. Do you think you could have? Murdered all those people?”

“I...no. When Cassandra told me, showed me what happened, I was certain. The Breach will destroy Thedas, it holds no benefit to anyone.” But what if I didn’t know the Breach would be the outcome? It could have been a mistake, an unintended result of the strange magic used. Would I be willing if it was only killing those people? 

“So why worry? The freaky Fade thing said you were innocent. You think you are-”

“Because maybe I should have,” I cut him off, finally admitting what has been bothering me since I woke in the Chantry prison. 

My confession prompts an uncomfortable silence to stretch between us until I break it with a whisper. “In time, the human empires will crumble. We have seen it happen countless times. Until then, we wait, we raise halla and build aravels and present a moving target to the humans around us.” Countless recitations with Keeper Deshanna had drilled each of Keeper Gisharel’s speeches into my memory.

“The Chantry crushed us. The humans forced us into slavery under a different name or exile away from civilization. Both are destroying my people. They work to ensure we can never regain a home or our true heritage. Whoever caused that explosion might have also destroyed the Chantry, or weakened it. The Mage Templar War escalates without the Chantry to intercede. No Chantry tying human nations together, perhaps they let the war expand as a means of conquest. Destroy each other. The elves could finally rise up and rebuild a home. Whoever destroyed the Conclave, might have given the elves our best chance at a future.” 

“You believe that?”

I hang my head instead of reply. Unwilling to look him in the eye after preaching about the virtues of death and destruction. The same death and destruction I am exhausted of hearing and seeing inflicted upon people merely trying to live their lives.

“Look I get the whole feeling guilty thing. Like you need to do more, could never do enough. I was in Kirkwall when it was falling apart. I was friends with the mage that sparked this whole mess. He was trying to give mages a future. Instead he got a bunch of people hurt or killed and I protected that son of a bitch.”

“The rebellion is still ongoing. They might still have a future.”

“Assuming the Templars don’t kill them all. Which is exactly what would happen to the elves if you killed the Divine. Every Andrastrian would march against you. The precious future you would give your people is burning alienages and Dalish camps. Shit, I wouldn’t be surprised if elves have been strung up just from the rumor of your survival.”

Thinking about my clan, about them paying for me escaping death at the Conclave sinks another stone in the pit of my stomach.

“Besides I doubt any of us have a future or at least a good one with that giant hole in the sky,” Varric says with a shrug.

“Okay I’ll concede that point, and I guess another Exalted March wouldn’t be the best for my people.” I’m worrying at my thumbnail again. “Maybe I can use this stupid Herald of Andraste business to do some actual good.”

“Heh, being the Herald you might. You might also think you are doing good but actually cause pain. You’ll have to make decisions you never want to and live with the consequences.” His weary voice sparks my interest in finishing Tales of the Champion. What happened in Kirkwall to him and his friends? “Like I said I know a thing or two about guilt. So how about I give you some advice I gave an old friend that was also forced down this path. Write everything down. Keep a journal.”

“A journal?”

“Exactly. Record your fears, your worries, your reasons, what happened, what you wanted to happen. You might be surprised, but putting it down on paper can help organize your thoughts, sort out your emotions, maybe convince you to not destroy a city and start a war.”

“Did it really help Hawke?”

“I think it did.”

“I just write down what’s going on in my life? Even the boring parts or do I skip those so I sound more heroic?”

“Heh that’s what editing is for.”

“Alright, I guess this can’t hurt. Get me some paper when you go looking for that cake you owe me.”

“That’s the spirit! And if this new adventure lives up to it’s potential, maybe you’ll let me borrow them.”

“I’ll think about it, if you cut me in on the book sales.”


	5. My First Templar

The Templar’s aura, or whatever it is they do to mages, slams into me leaving me grasping for breath and mana. I can’t do anything. No freezing spray of ice to counter attack. No barrier to defend myself. Nothing but kneel there, watching as the Templar charges with his sword drawn.

I...I am going to die.

The blessed Herald, the only person that can seal the rifts and I’m about to die to a stupid Templar because of some stupid elfroot.

I try again to project a barrier with everything I can muster. I maybe cause some menacing looking sparkles or that might just be me concentrating too hard. The Fade feels infinitely far away. I really can’t do anything. The trembling starts as the Templar draws his sword back, preparing to skewer me. To kill me.

I don’t want to die.

The metallic clank from Cassandra’s shield crashing into the Templar’s armor is far louder than I expected. There are a pair of arrows sticking out of the Templar before he can even attempt to get back to his feet. I turn to see a slightly winded Varric brandishing Bianca with Solas towering behind him. Now that I’m not frozen in fear I can feel the hum of his protective magic surrounding me.

“Are you hurt?” I turn back to Cassandra. “Herald, are you alright?” Her concern grows as I stare blankly at her. Is she actually worried about me?

“I’m fine,” I reply with a shake of my head, trying to clear the feeling of cobwebs. Joy, Templars have aftereffects.

“Good. You are our only means of sealing the Breach. Do not run away again.” I can’t stifle my sigh of disappointment. It was nice to pretend her worry was for me instead of the mark for a few seconds.

“I wasn’t escaping.” I reply slowly and deliberately incase she missed my intention by not running away after she threatened me with execution. “I saw some elfroot and went to go pick it while you finished cleaning that ram. I didn’t intend to also fight a Templar, Seeker,” I snap. Cassandra glares at me. Perhaps she isn’t in favor of my tone.

“Ugh, I said this area has seen some of the worst fighting. These woods are full of Templars and apostates. Be more attentive. Your life is not yours alone anymore.” My jaw clenches, the back of my neck burns in anger.

“My life has never been my own!”

And for the first time, I have a small insight into Cassandra. For once I don’t feel so antagonistic towards her. I actually feel a bit silly for my behavior. I’m having an argument I’ve had countless times with Deshanna. The directness, the overbearingness from trying to do the right thing. From trying to protect the clan. Cassandra is the Keeper of the Inquisition and I’m acting like a selfish da’len. Fighting my place in life because I don’t like it.

“Thank you for saving me.” I murmur but I mean it.

“Oh. Yes,” Cassandra replies, sounding a bit thrown by my sudden shift in tone. “Don’t wander off alone again.” She marches off back towards the fallen ram.

“Said the Seeker, setting a perfect example,” chimes in Varric. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks, “because you look like you just had a run in with Hawke, or at least the ones that somehow survive their encounters.”

“I’m fine Varric. Still a little...fuzzy.” His pal routine is working on me, but us prisoners have to stick together. I have no one else.

“Fuzzy, huh? You didn’t hit your head or anything right?” I shake my head. “I’ve never had a Templar do their anti-magic thing to me before. I feel off, not sure how to describe it. Maybe out of phase with myself.”

“Encounters with Templars can be quite jarring. Time and rest are all you require,” Solas adds. “Let us join the Seeker and return to camp.”

“Chuckles has a point. We might want to catch up with her before she thinks we all deserted and threatens us with executions again.” Varric heads out, cursing the rocks and uneven terrain. I hang back with Solas as we follow.

“Solas, do you know any methods to handle Templar abilities?”

“Yes, there are several techniques one can use.”

“Would you be willing to teach me?”

He looks me up and down. I’m not quite able to read his expression. “Hmm, I am willing to try. Perhaps you can learn _something_.”

“Ma serannas,” I say with my best smile. Solas teaches me how to magically deal with the Templars. Perhaps I can stomach getting Cullen to show me their weaknesses or at least let me spare with him. Time to get back into fighting shape.


	6. Unintended Compliments

“Solas, you’re bigger than most elves I’ve seen.”

I immediately regret my word choice as Varric bursts into laughter. At least Solas’ only response is a raised eyebrow and Cassandra is blessedly busy with Inquisition scouts across camp.

“I didn’t realize you two were so close,” Varric teases.

“You know what I mean,” I reply with my best cutting glare. The glee in his eyes dims slightly. Disappointment clearly written on his face that there is no blushing or girlish tittering. “Even you must have noticed that Solas is fairly tall, broader, more…” I grope for a good word to describe him,”...thick?”

Yes. Excellent word usage today. More thick. Who describes a person like that?

“...er...I mean...well defined.” Good job brain we totally saved that sentence.

“Perhaps I am closer to how an elf should appear, and your Dalish are merely scrawny.”

“Scr...scrawny?!” I sputter.

“One can’t expect an elf to reach their full potential while wandering the forests, constantly half starved,” he says with a shrug.

He could have a point. I remember the countless nights I went to bed hungry. Bad winters I was more accustomed to the hollow feeling in my stomach than feeling stated. However, I refuse to believe that explains our difference. 

“But you also wandered the wilderness,” I object.

“Not always. Even then I had but one mouth to provide for, you had an entire camp.”

“Okay, how about city elves. The elves in Haven are closer to my scrawny size.”

“You are surprised that second class citizens are also malnourished? Instead of wandering the wilds half starved, they are confined to alienages half starved.”

Impossible he has survived better than every elf I’ve ever come across, and not just a little better. But I’ve never seen a well-off elf, if such a thing exists. I make a point of crossing my arms in a huff, trying to think of some form of rebuttal. I’ve never been graceful at losing arguments.

“Truly riveting. Elves and all that,” interjects Varric, “but let’s backtrack here for a second. How did you describe Solas?” He asks me pointedly. The glee, or maybe it’s mischief, dances in his eyes again. “Broad? Well defined? Those almost sound like compliments. You might have a secret admirer here, Chuckles.”

True to the nickname, Solas lets out a low laugh. “Perhaps I do. However, she has hardly concealed the fact.”

My mouth drops. Really?! Some harmless flirting in Haven and they act like I'm an infatuated da’len. Mister I run a spy ring should know that flirting is a perfect means of misdirecting a conversation or getting someone off guard to reveal information. I was just...I was...I don’t care. The Inquisition has been one giant nightmare. Accused of being a mass murderer to suddenly becoming a prophet of a God I don’t even believe in. The God of the people that crushed mine. The sinking realization I might be the world’s only hope of closing the Breach. It’s just been depressing, grinding on me.

Sitting in camp laughing around the fire seems so far away. Like a life I would never see again. The sly smile spreading across Solas’ face and Varric’s deep genuine laughs are fair trade for their teasing. I might even be willing to play along.

“Oh shut up before I punch you,” I start in my most indigent tone then slowly slide my voice into light and dreamy. “Punch you in your perfectly chiseled jaw.” Since I’m truly dedicated to my craft, I throw in a giggle and eyelash fluttering.

“It is a very nice jawline. I’ve caught myself admiring it once or twice,” Varric manages between laughs.

“Thank you Varric. Your chest hair is also very desirable, or so I have heard.” How Solas is able to say that with a straight face is beyond me, but it completely cracks Varric who starts coughing from laughing too hard.

“Oh, sounds like I have an admirer as well. I’ll button up. Wouldn't want to steal the attention of your crush, Herald.” Varric wheezes out.

“I hate you both, but I could never deny Thedas the majesty of your chest hair,” I say shaking my head, knowing that I can’t stop my the upturn in my lips, knowing that my walls are crumbling.


End file.
